Take my first attempt at losing my virginity, for instance. I was living in Malta at the time and it happened at my then boyfriend’s house when his parents were out for the afternoon. We were in the bedroom clumsily trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to do to get rid of the terrible burden that is a teenager’s virginity when, about an hour in (and nowhere near actually having sex), his Grandad decided to come round for a visit. ‘Sweet of him’, I hear you say – yes well his Grandad was in the circus; he could inflate hot water bottles with his lungs, rip the Yellow Pages in half with his bare hands and there were pictures hanging above the fireplace of him pulling an Air Malta plane using only his 3 foot high, hairy body and a chest-harness. He also didn’t speak any English, which for some reason made him seem more scary to me.
I say ‘fun stuff’ but I’m not entirely sure that as you get older the things you consider fun are technically ‘fun’. Take spending money for example. Being young meant being skint and yet there were so many awesome things I could have bought if my pockets had contained more than the bus fare home and a broken cigarette. Now that I do have the disposable income, what do I do with it? I spend it all on scented fucking candles and bottles of Febreeze. I have become obsessed. A Yankee Candle shop opened in town recently and I instantly touched myself inappropriately.
Another change I have noticed is the conversations I have with taxi drivers. I used to only ever talk to them about two things: Why I was hungover or how much he would charge if I was to hypothetically throw up all over the back seat. Since turning 30, I still only ever talk to them about two things but now it is either about the bypass and how ridiculous it is that we still don’t have one, or it is to discuss my feelings about the plans for Donald Trump’s golf course and the effect it will have on the local community – I was against it until I found out Tiger Woods was a dirty slut, now I say “build the fucking golf course and get his hot little black ass as close to my house as possible”. There are plenty of places for badgers to live, but how often will I get the chance to exploit the personality flaws of Tiger Woods in Aberdeen? Exactly.
The concept of mail has also started to morph into an entirely new creature in our household. I received a letter the other day asking if I wanted to be on the Aberdeen Citizens Panel, and I THOUGHT ABOUT IT. I actually, seriously considered it. They said I could voice my concerns. I have concerns!! I also contemplated joining the postcode lottery and almost filled up those plastic bags for donating your old clothes to charity. This morning I received one of those letters from Cancer Research with a pen enclosed asking me for some money. Normally I would throw the letter in the bin and think “Boost! Free pen!” but not today. Today I thought “That reminds me, I must start thinking about donating to some sort of charity”. I then threw the pen away because when I tried to use it I couldn’t get the image of bald children out of my head. Get a grip!
It’s not just the receiving of mail that is becoming an issue, I have also started sending more. In the past three months I have written four complaint letters, one to a magazine, one to iTunes, one to my neighbour and one to my postman asking him to stop being such a cunt and actually put my mail through my letter box as opposed to leaving it outside on the fucking pavement.
Hmm, maybe I do care about things after all. I take it all back – I think when you reach 30 it’s not that you stop caring, it’s just that you stop caring about yourself. I would go so far as to say that when it comes to me, this is pretty much it, so as time goes on I worry less about what I say, what I look like or what people might think of me. Instead it is other people I worry about: my friends and family, Steve Jobs (he has pancreatic cancer and cannot, I repeat, cannot die before my upgrade is due in August. I don’t like the iphone 4 so he needs to get designing), the postman, the Middle East, my neighbour and the shambles that is today’s society. I’ve found that it is much easier (and way more fun) to judge other people rather than yourself so, as much as I loved them, you can poke your twenties. Anyway, I’m only at the very beginning of my thirties so if you squint really hard whilst dangerously drunk you could argue that, on the scale of things, I am still just a baby.
I will leave you now with a few things I have said recently which have placed me firmly in the bony, arthritic grip of old age.
-“You know, I don’t know enough about birds.”
-“I’m not keen on those new-builds. I’d rather have a house with a bit more character.”
-“Well Billy, I’m gonna need new hiking boots if we are going to start climbing Munros.”
-“Oh, but if we go to Sainsbury’s now it’ll mean that I’ll miss Escape to the Country! It’s my all-time favourite programme you fascist!”
-“Okay then, sign me up for the Baker Hughes 10k run.”
-“Granted those shoes are nice, but would you class them as comfortable? Because I’m not really sure I would.”
-“I really want to see The King’s Speech.”
Sshhh, it’s all gonna be okay……..
